Stitches
by M1tchR0yc3
Summary: Humanity needs help to survive in this shattered world, and it'll come from the most unexpected source. Set both during and after the events of Gears 3.
1. Crowded Heads

_Disclaimer(s): I own nothing. New writer, review, c-crit only blah blah, thank ya__. _

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><p><em>Two weeks after war's end, Baird's workshop, Azura:<em>

_This is gonna be one of those days,_ thought Baird as he lay awake in bed, 6:03 in blue digits burning its way into his eyes.

He threw the covers off and sat up cross-legged on the cot. Having been unable to sleep for more than an hour per night this past week, his mood had steadily worsened as well as his technical skills. This second part exacerbated the first, and he'd throw a wobbler at the slightest misstep in his workshop by his hapless assistants Roach and Molly. _Just Roach now, genius_, his conscience piped up with as he stood and headed to the shower.

The two had come looking for an apprenticeship with him after the war's end. Roach was an Indie kid who'd been offered up by Trescu as a make-nice gesture with the Remnant, who'd sent one of their own kids to learn with the Gorasni in a sort of exchange student program. Not the most flattering nickname, but he'd earned it surviving more than most non-military men twice his age. Molly was a Stranded orphan who figured the living was better on the paradise colony of Azura, with actual hot water, electricity, and medical facilities. Baird had taken them on as willingly as he could, working hours a day in solitude surrounded by machines having lost most of its lustre now that no one was in danger of being shot by underground monsters. _They're gonna be around for a while, might as well get along with 'em._

Molly had dropped a box of tools in surprise the previous day when an exhausted and red-eyed Baird had burst into the shop, grumbling to himself about the hardships he'd surely face and how he absolutely was not in the mood for any shit today, got it? No damage had been done, but the noise sounded like a grenade had gone off in and Baird had spent an hour chewing her out before unceremoniously firing her, sending the girl home in a sobbing fit. He'd actually felt terrible upon seeing her burst into tears and rush out, and the shocked look on Roach's face had only deepened his disgust in himself, which he vented by lashing out at the unlucky assistant.

"What the hell are you looking at? Get back to work and fix this...," he searched in mounting anger for the name of the machine Roach had been tinkering with and to his immense annoyance was unable to find it, "...thing! What do you even do here anyways? I haven't seen you actually make progress on any of this shit! It's still busted! Worthless! _Fuck!_" Roach's head snapped back down and he began working faster, fearful that he too was about to get his termination notice. Baird was silent for a few moments, hands on hips, jaw working silently, before telling him that work was done for the day and walking out without another word. _It's called a radio. Dick._

He finished showering and dressed light, early mornings on Azura being fairly warm. Exiting the shop, he didn't bother to lock the door as there wasn't anything worth stealing. Not unless you wanted an angry Baird shoving a Boltok in your face. Walking up the rock-lined pathway toward the central courtyard, nose wrinkling at the stench of rotten seaweed wafting in from the ocean, his mind was crowded as usual, and he reveled in it. He thought about about the constant work orders, the long lists of people waiting to have their electronics fixed, Sam, the mind-boggling fact that he was the only person in this damn colony who knew his way around a fuel injector, Sam, his (_friend_) fellow Gear Marcus now falling quickly into a depression, his (and Baird's) comrade-in-arms Dom dead under unknown circumstances, Marcus having clammed up on that account, and finally, Sam.

The two of them hadn't talked very much since after the horrible incident with the almost dying and the giant bug and Marcus' dad turning into a goddamn pile of dust, aside from a congratulatory chat post-battle and a few awkward conversations sometimes if they passed each other. _"Nice weather we're havin', huh?" "Yeah! Sunny! Again! Same as always!"_ She worked security, he was maintenance, so generally they didn't speak much. He had the vague feeling he should remedy that, maybe sweet-talk their de facto leader Marcus into posting her at his workshop, do a couple favours for the guy to put his mind somewhat at ease. That particular train of thought jumped the tracks as Baird realized he was at the apartment complex Molly lived at, switching over to just what the _hell_ he was supposed to say to her at quarter after 6 in the morning.

"I'm looking for Molly. Molly..." _(the hell was her last name?)_ "...uh, just Molly. Red hair, sorta…..ditzy? A bit short," Baird stated to the receptionist, a middle-aged man with a _(very)_ bad comb-over and gin blossoms_. His nose looks like a damn strawberry._ "612, down the left hallway as you exit the elevator," came the curt and disinterested reply as the man went back to his faded fishing magazine, implying no further conversation was required. Thanking the man while flipping him off, Baird walked over and waited for the one working elevator to painfully wheeze its way down to collect him. The receptionist didn't even acknowledge, and the silence was palpable. _I'll have to get working on the others after I've fixed our fuel crisis. _

The thought of apologizing to Molly made Baird feel uncomfortable, and he ran his hand through his hair as he entered the lift. He noted with surprise that more than a few hairs cascaded down_. Ah, now to add male pattern baldness to my expansive list of problems. Fan-fucking-tastic._ The elevator creaked to a halt and the doors dramatically failed to open. Baird waited a few seconds before losing his patience and climbing out cursing through the makeshift escape hatch in the ceiling, courtesy of the Locust assault on Azura. _Guess you did one thing right, you scummy genocidal bitch-queen._

Having rushed up a few flights of stairs, Baird stood in front of his former assistant's door, pausing yet again to ponder a situation he was unfamiliar with. He could fix a Centaur with gum and a prayer while having the shit shelled out of him by the fucking underground lizard people and he still couldn't bring himself out from behind his protective wall of sarcasm for more than a bit at a time. His inner Cole decided to make a special guest appearance, only this Cole sounded much more vicious than the real one_. Guess yo' family messed you up real good! Let's just hope that damage ain't permanent! Might miss out on all the wonderful insights you got to share with us common folk, eh Blondie? Ha!_ Realizing he would look like a lunatic standing in front of someone's door lost in reverie to any early risers, he mentally slapped himself in the face and knocked on Molly's door.

There was silence. He looked around, fidgeting slightly and adjusting his jacket in impatience. Muffled footsteps came from behind the door, growing louder. Another pause, and he could tell something was looking at him through the peephole. Molly opened the door in her pyjamas, her frizzy red hair falling in front of half-lidded eyes. She opened her mouth to speak and Baird interrupted her. "If you're wondering what the hell I'm doing here, and you probably are, I've come to uh, give you your job back." They stared at each other for a bit, Baird with his lips pursed and arms folded, Molly with the stunned look of the recently woken. "...and to say, um, that what happened may, and I stress may, not have been entirely your fault. So yeah, that's...all I had to say. Oh, and uh, be in the shop by 10:00."

There was another awkward silence as Baird failed to meet her eyes for any longer than a second. "OK! Well, I'm off to singlehandedly prevent this burgeoning nexus of humanity's resurrection from imploding. Go me." He turned and began walking back to the stairwell, congratulating himself on handling the situation so diplomatically and forcing himself not to look back as he heard the door close behind him.

After an uneventful early morning jog back to his workshop (he'd passed up having an actual apartment, choosing instead to sleep on a cot in one of the storage rooms), he collapsed in a swivel chair, then collapsed on the ground as the damn thing broke. Swearing explosively and inviting every saint in the heavens to jump in a wheat thresher, he fumbled with the now useless furniture, examining it for sabotage from Roach_. A wayward screw, a tiny dent, anything to compromise it to get at his asshole boss_. A few seconds later he determined that nope, this wasn't an act of revenge, this was Baird's fat ass finally breaking an old chair. _Well, shit. I'm not passing up my three squares just to save on furniture._

Dumping the chair into one of the closets and grabbing an old wooden one, he figured he may as well kill time before opening up the shop, and took a look through some of the blueprints Anya'd dug out of the vast mainframe housed in the Administrative Complex. Emergency resuscitators, makeshift water purifiers, other thrown-together pieces of machinery were laid out in detail, with the requisite scientific scribbles in the margins. None of it struck him as particularly helpful or necessary, even for the purposes they'd been designed for; they had clean water and more than enough medical equipment; Prescott had spared no expense in the protection and maintenance of Sera's best and brightest, and they weren't in any danger of a rampant disease coming to kick them further up the endangered species list. _Probably survival gear in case the grubs showed up and they had to make a quick exit. _He tossed them onto his newly formed Do-Not-Want pile and resumed shuffling through.

_Problem's fuel._ The Remnant had been lucky in that regard. Scouts combing the labyrinthine sublevels of the complex had come across vast chambers containing thousands upon thousands of barrel of petroleum. A further blessing came when Baird and the other techs had been able to easily adapt some vehicles to run on said fossil fuel. Adam Fenix had probably advised Prescott before the Locust takeover that his doomsday pulse would kill all of the Imulsion, and emergency stockpiles of fuel had been gathered and flown in. The conversion process was relatively quick, just a few minor tweaks in the fuel lines, but dangerous. Post-Gold Rush vehicles weren't designed to run on petrol, and more than a few technicians and even Baird himself had been admitted to Dr. Hayman with burns.

A few hours later, Baird had sifted through all the papers and found precisely not one thing that would help him in his endeavour, so he wandered over to his workbench and the cobbled together radio transmitter he'd been tasked with repairing. He took up a screwdriver and opened the guts of the thing up. The Remnant leadership had wanted some way to keep in contact with salvage and rescue teams. Baird had fixed that problem with the help of a few Gorasni engineers _(needed someone to block the light), _jury-rigging Adam's pulse machine to function as a long-range transmission tower.

The fuel situation was rather vexing; nothing he'd tried had even seemed like it worked, so he'd concluded that dead Imulsion was worthless for now. If anything, from the Maelstrom Device could be salvaged, he might be able to convert it to power production and save on petrol. He could've kicked himself, the solution was so obvious. Why hadn't he just tried repairing it? _Probably because you're overworked, underappreciated, and Hoffman's had you running your ass off from goddamn Anvil Gate._ Baird had remembered that conversation from a few days ago:

"Hoff, I think if I can re-tool the Maelstrom Device to generate power, it'll save on fossil fuel until I can figure out why the hell dead Imulsion doesn't work."

"First off, Corporal, it's Hoffman, not Hoff, ever. Second, making contact with other Stranded colonies is our top priority, for reasons I'm not going to explain in any great detail, because although I'm highly-respected in the Remnant for my combat and strategic skills, I still have my head shoved up my ass when it comes to Stranded! They may hate us and would gladly kill us all while we sleep, steal our shit, and revenge-fuck our dead bodies, but hey, we only blew up _most_ of the planet, no hard feelings, right?"

Baird admitted to himself that he may have made up that last bit, but he was too tired to care at the moment. Switching a few wires around inside and closing the transmitter with a small feeling of satisfaction, he yawned, stretching, and headed back to his cot for a few winks before the hordes came banging on his door.

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><p><em>Two weeks ago, 50<em> k_m outside Mercy:_

"Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy _shit! _That was Mercy!_",_ Meg swore. Her and her salvage partner Bill had seen the blast at Mercy from miles away, a hellish chain-reaction as fuel-lines ruptured and exploded. Slamming on the gas pedal, the junker groaned as she pushed it to its limit. Bouncing over the never-ending potholes of old HWY 106, her mind raced as she tried to think of what could have occurred. _What the hell happened? Some sort of accident, or Locust raid? Oh my god, Tom. _She was terrified for her older brother, a tech who worked on the pipelines, making sure the people of Mercy always had fuel and power. "_Easy_, Meg! This damn thing'll shake itself to pieces if ya don't slow down!", Bill's gravelly voice cut through her thoughts, and she did as he said, knowing that a busted junker wouldn't get them anywhere if shit hit the fan. _Mercy just blew the hell up. Shit HAS hit the fan! _Stone-faced and silent, she continued driving towards the only real home she'd ever known, watching it burn in the afternoon sun.

_The Deadlands, drone forward base:_

Meg wasn't the only one who saw the explosion, and the spotter raised his fellow watchman on a walkie-talkie. [Vek, did-], he snarled down the line to the other tower. [I saw. Tell Herik.], came the reply, and Rathe quickly slid down the ladder and ran to the command tent in the center of the locust camp. The other soldiers ignored him and kept to their tasks; this was a military outpost, and if someone was running, they'd know soon enough why. Throwing back the tent cover and marching inside, he spoke before his superior could even open his mouth. [There's been an explosion at the Human settlement. The one called Mercy.]

There was silence, and he then noted the others present in the room. A heavy Rathe knew to be Maul, Captain of the Guard, a kantus, Herik himself, and two theron who'd been in deep discussion with Herik before Rathe's intrusion all stared at him. The theron wore the armour of the Breaker faction, so-called for their skill in taming the beasts of the Hollow. Herik snapped orders to the kantus, a man named Seht, [Assemble a search team as you see fit. Investigate, take any salvage and prisoners you can find, bring them here. Minimal casualties. Maul-], he addressed the heavy, [Double the guard and prepare for possible hostile incursions.] [Understood, sir.], thundered Maul, as he waddled out. Seht acknowledged his task and loped after him.

Herik cracked his knuckles and spoke to the two theron who'd been interrupted, [This will continue another time. You may attend the interrogation]. The theron thumped their chests in unison and walked out. Once everyone else was gone, Herik finally acknowledged Rathe.

[You'll accompany the search team as a sniper. Check your gear with the weaponsmaster and report to War Priest Seht.] [Sir, what do you expect's happened?], Rathe asked with a hint of nervousness that he quickly smothered. Herik didn't seem to care that he'd been questioned, and gave a candid response. [We know that Mercy has an Imulsion refinery. Three things may have happened. One, there's been a catastrophic failure at the plant. That seems unlikely, everything went up too quickly; it would have been sequential, pipelines blowing one by one. Two, one of the other factions attacked and destroyed the plant. Also unlikely, none of them have the numbers or weaponry to assault a fortress settlement such as that, even Heart of Fury.]

He flared his nostrils and continued, [I'll wager my blood that it was Lambent, and the Humans were overrun. In desperation, they sent it all up in flames.] He turned to Rathe and asked with a surprising hint of sadness in his voice, [Were you born when they rained fire from the heavens on us, on even their own kind? Millions, _billions_ dead, to deny us what territory they'd lost. That hate…] His dark eyes seemed to stare through Rathe, who decided to speak up to ease his general's sudden bout of melancholy, [Sir, they don't think like us. They're…], Rathe paused, searching for the right word before settling on, [-beasts. They have technology they can barely control, and this dead planet's all they have to show for it. _They_ started this war, not us. They would have attacked us, slaughtered us all. The Queen may be gone, but we've still got to fight.]

It rang hollow to Rathe's ears, and Herik could tell, rolling his lips back to expose shredding incisors in a half-grin. [You're unconvinced of your own words, Guardsman. Perhaps you'll learn. Go now, Seht isn't known for his patience.] He clasped his hands behind him and turned his back on Rathe, who stared at his back for a moment, then wheeled on one foot and marched out in the same fashion he'd entered, the tent cover silent as he exited.

Herik stood with his eyes closed until he'd heard the guardsman leave, then permitted himself a small grunt of irritation laced with pity. The guardsman was young, only 15 at most, and trying to cling to anti-Human rhetoric he didn't particularly believe to give him a sense of purpose. He, and countless others like him, had been mass-produced just before the Surge to eventually replace the soldiers who would die in droves assaulting major Human cities across Sera. The odds of his family being alive were unfathomably low. He'd probably never even seen a woman, a real one, not the _things _too many drone females had been transformed into on the witch's orders, what Humans called Berserkers in their language. _For them alone, I'd rip the tongue from her lying mouth; crush her skull between my hands._

The old general could tell he wasn't alone in those sentiments. Aside from those who had seceded after the witch appeared, this camp and others were filled with disillusioned survivors of the war, from divisions abandoned in the line of duty to splinter groups that refused to swear allegiance to the false queen Myrrah. He and other high-ranking drone secessionists had brought them all together, and disasters one after another had driven them out of the hollow and into this shithole known as the Deadlands. Reduced to fighting each other like mad animals for scraps, the locust were dying. Herik had created his own cabal of trustworthy assistants, ruthlessly culling those too loose of lips or loyalty. His people were surrounded by potential enemies, and he had to do something quickly before they were overrun.

He growled in defiance. _I haven't lived this long and through this much to have dronekind scattered and my head on a spear._ His inner circle knew of his plan, some approving, most not, all accepting his judgement in the end. He prayed to the gods below that there were Humans to capture in Mercy, and that they would help him see this through.

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><p><em>Mercy:<em>

It was a broken, pitiful thing, having lost most of its body mass to the explosion, the shrapnel, and the flames. Any sane observer would have dismissed it as dead and left it. It wouldn't rot; any micro-organisms or carrion beasts had long since died in the Hammer strikes. If there were any Lambent still active in Mercy, they would have ignored it, as it wasn't a threat and far too damaged to bother infecting. So it lay there, barely alive, barely human, in darkness and silence. And somewhere in the depths of its shattered consciousness, it dreamt of a woman.


	2. The Bitter Pill

_I've written up somethin' quick for character dev. and to keep the story goin' a bit. Hope this gets some exposure; read, review, all that good stuff. Enjoy!_

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><p><em>16 AE, shortly after the explosion at Mercy:<em>

"Oh, god."

The devastation was incredible. Metal fragments and charred scraps of flesh covered the pavement, the burst pipelines still belched smoke into the sky, and the massive, torn-open hulk of the Imulsion facility rose in the center of the town like a monument to some hellish fiend.

"Oh, _god_," Meg murmured again, her mouth open in disbelief as the scope of the damage slammed into her consciousness, her knuckles white on the steering wheel.

"I doubt he's takin' calls right now, and it's not gonna do us any good if you're wastin' fuel idlin'," Bill remarked from the junker's passenger seat, though not unkindly. "We'll need it if we're gonna be evacuatin' survivors. Let's get out and see if we can find 'em."

Meg swallowed and nodded, releasing her deathgrip on the wheel. Bill gave her a reassuring smile and the two of them exited the junker, stepping onto the ground just inside the entrance to Mercy. It had been an hour since the explosion, and Meg had been on the edge of her seat the entire way there, anxious to find her brother. Now that they were here, she dreaded the answer. At least from a distance, Mercy had still looked relatively intact.

Bill withdrew the Mk. 1 he always had underneath his seat in case of a grub raid or highwaymen, securing a blunted knife to the frontmount and taping a couple of the mags together. Even with humanity breathing its last, there were those who would rob and kill their own kind. He'd learned that little gem the hard way when he'd first set out to Mercy a few years ago, his wife and teenage son killed before his eyes and his legs cracked with a sledgehammer, all for the meager possessions they'd managed to flee with.

_Take a walk down Memory Lane some other time, there's shit to do, _he chastised himself. Meg selected a sawed-off and a Gorgon from the weapons crate in the back of the junker, while Bill readjusted his homemade Drone-skin shoulder holster containing a pinger he'd taken as a trophy off a dead Grenadier. He favoured the two-barrel revolver of Kashkuri design as it was rare in this part of the world, and a good middle ground between a snub and a Boltok, not as fast as the former or as powerful or the latter, but a mix of the two.

They checked their weapons and strapped on ammo bandoliers, fitting grenades to their belts. They'd never been soldiers, but you learned fast what to do and what not, usually from watching a friend die horribly. Sera was Bowden's "survival of the fittest" doctrine brought to hideous life; everyone who was too weak, slow, or stupid had been killed off, while the toughest had congregated in places like Mercy. Now the town was leveled, and they weren't able to fool themselves into thinking it was just a faulty seal that caused this. Up close, the tattered Locust corpses were a dead giveaway.

_That was tasteless,_ Meg thought with a flash of amusement that quickly surrendered to apprehension. Beyond the crackling of flames, there wasn't a sound. No screams, no gunfire. She turned to Bill, who raised a finger to his lips and nodded. _He's picked up on it, too._ They waited in silence for a moment, and then Bill started through the main gate with Meg following closely behind.

The scene was the same inside the town walls, the ground strewn with Locust blood and bodies. They walked past small shacks of corrugated iron where new arrivals lived while they were checked out by the citizenry. Meg and her brother had lived in one when they'd first come to Mercy, and been treated with automatic distrust. Such an attitude was to be expected; you never knew who the people you were letting in had been. Bill hadn't had to go through the process, but he'd also been a raving, dehydrated wreck with his kneecaps in pieces who'd just seen his family murdered. She never found out the specifics, or how the resident sawbones had saved his legs. Stranded didn't exactly have the best healthcare system.

The stench of burning Imulsion was almost as pervasive as those of burnt flesh and gunpowder. Meg wondered if she wasn't going to catch rustlung as they made their way to the old church converted into a town hall. The structure's thick stone walls, large metal doors, and a generous interior with lots of cover made it a perfect spot to withstand a siege. In a pinch, the extensive catacombs could be used for a quick evacuation. In short, the building was an assault leader's worst nightmare.

They hadn't said a word to each other since entering Mercy. Though it was easy to tell no surviving Locust had stuck around, there was a shared feeling that the slightest noise would result in stalks bursting from the ground and Lambent arriving to slaughter them. Even so, Meg couldn't help but pipe up with, "Bill, there's Locust and glowie blood everywhere, but no people."

"I know. This ain't right, we should be seein' bodies. The trucks're still outside, so no one's left, so where is everybody? They should've fought back, but all the chokepoints 'n' blockades're empty. What the hell's goin' on?" he said, fear evident in his voice. "We need to get to the church, meet up with other survivors, an' find out what's happened. If you see a big enough grub chunk on the way, check it for ammo. We got a radio at town hall, we'll use it to call for help. This point, I don't care if it's COG."

He breathed in deep, wishing he had a smoke. "I'm not one for pickin' up sticks and movin' on, but I can't see this havin' a happy ending."

"What abo-?" Meg started to ask before Bill cut her off. "I know you're worried about your brother, but you gotta be ready for bad news. This world ain't one for tears, believe me. Now let's quit standin' around and go."

They stared at one another, faces hard, and then Meg nodded slowly, hating Bill's words, but knowing that he was right. They'd all become accustomed to keeping each other at arm's length, as your friends, your family, could be dead the next day.

"Alright, Bill. Let's keep walking." He gave her a small half-smile, hefted his Lancer, and turned, leading the way towards the church. Meg scanned the area one last time, and then followed close behind, the feeling of dread even greater, now compounded by another.

She had the feeling they were being watched.


	3. Food for Thought

___As I actually write more, I'll be going back and revising other chapters to make them work better. Booyah, read, review._

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><p><em>16 AE, two weeks after war's end:<em>

"Baird! _Baird! _Open up!"

There was pounding on the metal door of the workshop, then a man's voice could be heard through the open window of the storage room.

"_Baird! Wake the fuck up!"_

Baird's eyes shot open, and for one second he prayed he'd woken up from a nightmare and could fall back asleep. He was so damn tired, and he'd had to fight even for the hour of rest given to him. The voice, now identifiable as Marcus, continued to shout, dashing his hopes. _There goes that idea._

"Baird, ten seconds! Move it! Nine!"

Baird hauled himself off the cot and wrapped the blanket around him, grabbing his goggles off the bedside table. His fingers slipped out of sheer exhaustion and mumbled a stream of curses as he picked them off the floor and Marcus continued to count loudly outside ("_Six!"_). He glimpsed the clock, which read 10:12 AM. Shocked that he'd overslept, Baird then stumbled to the shop's front door, stubbing his toe on a table leg, which elicited another torrent of invectives.

He unlatched the door and yanked it open to reveal Marcus just as he screamed "_Three!" _The sergeant wore a gray hoodie with the COG symbol emblazoned over the left side and his usual soldier's cargo pants. He'd opted to leave the do-rag behind, and his dark hair stuck up in small fringes.

There was a moment of silence as they stared at each other while the echoes died away, and then Marcus indicated the person next to him that Baird had completely failed to notice. It was Molly, dressed in a blue mechanic's jumpsuit with her toolbox and goggles. A stipulation of working alongside Baird was that you took your work home with you to study, fixing machines in various states of disrepair. Their practical use was questionable, but they provided good practice for his students.

Baird's brow furrowed, bloodshot eyes trying to focus muzzily on her. "Huh. Didn't think you'd show up. 'Dill in Bay 2, get cracking," he said, extending his arm from beneath the blanket like a pseudopod and jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards the garage at the rear of the shop, before stepping aside to admit her. Molly trudged past him, her eyes spearing the floor.

Turning back to Marcus, he asked as politely as he could muster, "What are you doing here?"

Marcus began to answer, "-", before he was interrupted by Molly, who had called to Baird wondering what on the 'Dill was busted. "Everything," Baird called back, returning his attention to Marcus and ignoring the fading grumbling behind him.

"We picked up something on your transmitter," Marcus said. Baird's pride swelled at the fact that his repurposed death-machine transmitter had worked so quickly and so well. He smirked at Marcus and gloated, "Of course you did. I made it."

"Good, now you can help us unscramble it and find out where it's coming from. Anya's up in Comms, get dressed and let's go."

At this point, Baird had woke up somewhat and remembered he'd been roused from whatever brief sleep he would've gotten by his screaming former sergeant, and this was a fact which now rushed straight to the front of his brain. "And you just had to come pounding on my door and shaking the goddamn dust out of the rafters with your shrieking?" he spouted tersely.

"Doorbell didn't work."

There was another silence as the two men stared at each other. His eyes never leaving Marcus', Baird then slowly reached around the doorframe and, with great care and ceremony, depressed a small black button roughly five feet off the ground. A strident tone rang out, clearly audible both inside and outside of the shop, as Baird withdrew his arm into the folds of the blanket. With icy politeness, he requested, "Give me fifteen minutes," and then stepped back inside to prepare.

Fifteen minutes later, Baird emerged from the shop wearing a heavily oil-stained blue mechanic's jumpsuit similar to the kind Molly had worn. In Baird's opinion, if the jumpsuit wasn't at least a little greasy at all times, the mechanic was no good. A bulging tool belt was fastened around his waist, his face was clean-shaven, and his hair carefully spiked and held in place by his goggles. No matter what he looked like, or what situation he was in, Baird always had his goggles on unless he was asleep at home.

Marcus had been leaning against the wall, arms folded and eyes closed. The sound of the door opening snapped him out of his brief snooze and he stood straight, acknowledging Baird with a curt nod. Responding in kind, Baird began walking beside his friend along the stone path towards the Administrative Complex, now a hive of activity as the Remnant tried to rebuild civilization. They walked in silence for a few minutes, before Baird spoke up.

"Marcus." "Yeah?" "You think we could get something to eat first?" "Sure."

They turned onto another street that would take them to the Dining Hall, the opulence of which deserved the capital letters. Dizzy had proven himself a capable cook when presented with field rations, transforming them into surprisingly palatable meals that didn't come exclusively in "puke" and "grub shit" flavours. When unleashed upon Azura's expansive kitchens, with their spice racks as tall as a man, a utensil for every purpose, rows of ovens and stoves, and cavernous stores of food ("….most of which didn't even come in a can!" Dizzy had exulted), he'd received nothing but glowing reviews from the people who came to eat there, Remnant and Gorasni alike.

The Dining Hall was relatively empty when they entered, breakfast having been the previous hour. As such the two were able to grab trays and wait in line without fear of being unable to find seats. Dizzy spotted them from behind the serving counter and waved them to the front of the line ahead of all the other soldiers, a broad smile growing on his face.

"Move aside, move a-_side_! Make way fer Delta! Remember this, boys, you're in the presence of heroes! _Gods among men_! You tell yer grand-kids about the day you saw_ Delta_, standin' shoulder-to-shoulder with you, facin' the deadly hordes of chicken-'n'-gravy san'wiches!"

Chuckling broke out in the queue, as Dizzy's attempt to soften the blow of his favoritism succeeded. Marcus smiled inwardly and even Baird faked a cough, trying lamely to disguise his mirth. A Tyran-accented voice rose from somewhere in the middle of the queue, "Yeah, Diz, they're really holdin' the line! They're holdin' it right up!" This elicited another burst of laughter from those gathered, and Marcus and Baird were ushered forward.

Still smiling, Dizzy leaned towards them on the counter, a chef's hat perched on his head. "What c'n I get you boys?"

Marcus checked the morning's menu for a second before settling on sausage and eggs.

"Somethin' to drink? We got every damn kind of coffee and juice under the sun. Lemme tell ya, this," Dizzy waved his arms to indicate the dining hall and kitchen, "whatever else Prescott did, this was worth payin' taxes for." Dizzy always said something along these lines about his kitchen. Marcus reluctantly agreed, then checked the menu again. The different coffees seemed indistinguishable to him, and he took the easy way out. _I'm a soldier, damnit, I can't tell what the hell a frappucino is._

"Surprise me, Diz."

"Done deal, Sarge," said Dizzy with a hint of excitement. "It'll be a good one. And you, son?" he turned towards Baird.

"Actually, that chicken sandwich sounds pretty good. Orange juice. Please," Baird replied. Dizzy beamed at them and then left, shouting orders to his army of subordinate cooks. Returning shortly, he said to them, "You boys take a seat. I'll have yer chow brought out to ya in a second."

The two nodded and walked over to one of the dining tables. As they seated themselves, Baird spoke.

"That was a dick move."

Marcus grunted in agreement. He wasn't sure why he'd banged on Baird's door instead of just ringing. All he'd known was that if he didn't do it, he'd explode, like it was the only way to let off the pressure he felt building up. The dark circles under Baird's eyes spoke volumes; he hadn't needed the brutal wake-up. Peace was the buzzword these days; being woken up on such short notice was supposed to be a thing of the past.

"Sorry."

Baird glared half-heartedly at him, obviously too tired to be properly angry. "The hell's been eating you, anyways?"

"Nothin'."

"About three days growth of stubble says _bullshit_," Baird said, leaning forward on folded arms.

Marcus' teeth ground behind his lips. "And you'd know my shaving routine how?"

"Trust me, you look as bad as I feel. Listen, before we get into a conversation about this-" Baird began.

"We're not," Marcus interjected testily.

"Yeah, sure. Listen. There anything you need doing on the side that, you know, isn't technically a priority?" Baird said with a questioning look on his face.

"Let me guess. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. Depends what you're asking," answered Marcus as he leaned forward as well.

"Well, yeah. I mean…yeah. So how about it?" Baird asked, his words having been stolen right out of his mouth.

_I'm quicker on the uptake than you think, Baird. "_Keep talking."

"Well, maybe you, our illustrious leader and saviour of humanity, could bestow upon this lowly engineer some goddamn security."

"You're just humble as a hermit, Baird. What do you need security for? Thanks," said Marcus as a waiter, an off-duty Gear, arrived and set his coffee down in front of him. He tore open a creamer and sugar pack, stirring them in as Baird received his drink. The engineer took a long swing of orange juice and thanked the waiter as well.

Noticing Marcus' drink, he commented, "Brown sugar? Really? Whatever happened to white?"

"Better for you. What do you need security for? No one's gonna steal a scrapheap," Marcus said

"Fuck you! I'm getting as much shit fixed as I can, without any help from those Indie bozos or the guys we've got here."

Baird gulped down the rest of his juice and cleared his throat. "That was actually really good," he said as he put the glass down. "I just need someone to watch the place, maybe help out with minor repairs. Someone who knows engines."

Marcus took a sip of his coffee. _This IS good._ He took another sip, letting the mug warm his hands. "Aren't you training two engineers already? They can watch the place."

Baird's eyes rolled skyward. "I wouldn't trust those two to tie my shoes."

"Then you would've fired 'em already. What're you actually looking for?" Marcus' stomach growled. _Wonder when the food's getting here._

"Shit!" Baird swore, before regaining his composure, not having foreseen explaining this much. "Ok, look, you know Sam, right?"

"Never heard of her," replied Marcus, taking another sip of his coffee.

"Haha, shut up. Anyways, I haven't pissed her off in a while, and I need some entertainment. Stick her at my shop so I have something to do while working."

Marcus gave him a knowing look. "You mean someone to bitch at."

"Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. She's good with engines. Will you do it?" Baird leaned forward and looked at him expectantly, his foot nervously tapping.

_And the Asshole of the Year award goes to…me. _Marcus sighed and finished the remainder of his coffee before speaking.

"Alright, Baird. She complains to me about it later, though, she's off, so don't do anything too stupid."

Baird looked like a man badly trying to hide an expression of relief. "Really? Okay. Alright. Just…try not to…..you know…."

"Relax, I'll make it look like a random assignment. Food's here. Thanks," said Marcus as the waiter set his plate and utensils down in front of him, prompting a "Welcome, sir" from the man. The waiter faced Baird and placed his food on the table as well.

"Thanks, man," acknowledged Baird, and the waiter gave a small bow and headed off to the kitchens. "Man, I've never gotten service like this _anywhere._ Peace-time is awesome," he said, tucking into his chicken sandwich. "Mmmmph! Amm mff bam foo'! Bfff Ffff hfff mm yfff!"

Marcus picked up his knife and fork and began sawing at one of his sausages. "Again, without the wad of sandwich in your mouth."

Baird held up a finger for pause, chewing a few seconds before swallowing. "I said, 'And this damn food, best I've had in years.'"

Marcus nodded, spearing half a sausage and popping it into his mouth. "Sure beats MREs." He chewed slowly. "Beats the _hell_ out of MREs."

Baird choked down another mouthful of chicken sandwich. "So, back to my earlier question, what's up? And don't give me that surly shit again."

"Why the hell do you care?" Marcus grumbled, starting on a fried egg. _Wish I had more coffee._

"I really don't feel like being screamed out of bed again. Having enough trouble sleeping as is," griped the engineer as he finished his sandwich and wiped his mouth.

"You still on about this?"

"Damn straight I'm still on about this! It wasn't even an hour ago! However," the blonde mechanic said thoughtfully, "since you're so generously willing to help me out, I'll forgive your horrible lack of consideration."

"Isn't that big of you. Delta's pretty princess clearing the bastard sergeant of all charges." _That should get him off my case._

"Nice try, Marcus. I'm not just an expert at defensive insults, I fucking patented them. Like I said, spit it out."

_I could pull back Sam to shut him up…...No._

Marcus looked up from his food with a tired expression on his face and gave a heavy sigh, pausing to put his thoughts in order.

"I guess you could say I'm having adjustment problems."

The blank expression from across the table prompted him to grudgingly continue. "To this," he waved to draw attention to their surroundings, "Two weeks ago, I was getting my ass shot off. Dom went. My dad didn't last much longer." He stuffed a fried egg in his mouth and swallowed. "They should be here."

Baird rested his chin in his hands and stared down at his empty plate. He breathed in deeply through his nose and exhaled before speaking. "I still have that disk, broke the lock on it a few days ago. The one your dad gave us." His eyes flicked up to Marcus and he sat back, drumming his fingers on the table. "I haven't looked at what's on it."

Marcus finished his meal and wiped his hands on a napkin, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I'll look at it later, once we're done in Comms. Let's go, Anya's probably wondering where we are." The two of them stood and began walking out, thanking the waiter one last time as he arrived to retrieve their used dishes.

The sky was still overcast, and dark clouds rolling in on the horizon spoke of rain. Hands in pockets, Marcus breathed in the salty air blowing off the sea as they headed to the hotel, and spoke.

"Baird."

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"Oh, yeah…no problem."

There was a pause in the conversation as they walked. The sound of the waves on the coast met their ears, and somewhere a seagull called. Marcus had thought they'd all been wiped out in the strikes.

"Marcus?" His attention returned to Baird.

"Yeah, Baird?"

"Just…..don't kick my door in any more."

Another pause. Marcus noted the people around them, having their own conversations as they met in the pathways or just went on break. It was weird, how normal, how _peaceful_ things seemed. He wondered if it was for good this time. _May as well answer Baird._

"Deal."

"Alright, good."

They were almost to the hotel now. Marcus imagined what he'd say to Anya when he saw her. He wasn't sure _Is there even anything for us?_

To his friend, he simply said, "Can't say Sam won't," and allowed himself a smirk as Baird's grumbling returned.

_That__, at least, is back to normal._


	4. Rite of Passage

_Note: For those wondering, yes, all the plot threads are connected, and yes, there is an actual story to this. Not just making it up as I go. R-and-R!_

* * *

><p><em>Two weeks after war's end:<em>

The heavy steel door clanking open roused him, the glare of the lights burning into the man's eye after so many hours in darkness. Squinting and holding a hand up to shield himself, he saw three silhouettes in the doorway, the two outer shadows coming into the cell. He swore as he was wrenched into a standing position, his captors pulling him along out of the cell and down a dank corridor lit by brutal fluorescents.

The sudden brightness exploded into a migraine, fueled by dehydration. Not a drop of water had passed his cracked lips since yesterday, and he'd even considered drinking his own piss at one point, a feeling which thankfully hadn't lasted long.

The whole dungeon stank of blood, human waste, and water damage. Dark tracks of black mould ran down the walls. Now and again, a fluorescent would blink on and off for a few seconds.

He could see a little better out of his left eye now, his right having been swollen shut from the vicious beatings which were the grubs' stock-and-trade. He was being dragged by two Drones along a dusty, harshly-lit hallway with thick metal doors lining the sides, behind each of which he knew a prisoner clung to life and sanity in pain-filled blackness. Locust weren't known for their hospitality towards humans, or even to each other.

A sign at the far end read "Detention Level". Another Drone, a Theron by its bleached-white armour, led in front, Boltok in each hand, Longshot slung across its back.

His "bodyguards" were dressed unusually. The Drone to his left wore a torn sweater vest over its chestplate, leather pauldrons, and dark sniper's goggles. A brightly-coloured wool toque with a red bobble was perched on top of its head. The right one wore a patchwork of different Locust armour types. A hide mask covered the upper half of its face and it peered out at the world through small slits in metal eyeshields.

Neither Bobblehead or Mishmash, as he dubbed them in his delirious state, carried firearms, although Bobblehead had a blood-covered collapsible baton hooked to its belt, and Mishmash had equally bloody chains wrapped around its hand as knuckledusters. Both Drones looked like they enjoyed hurting people.

"Where…where you takin' me?" he dared to ask.

None of the Locust even turned to acknowledge him, maintaining their lockstep march. His arms ached as he hung between the two Drones that carried him like so much dead weight.

"I said where the fuck-" The Theron spun around, smashing the butt of a Boltok directly into his cheek. There was a loud crack, and stars exploded in front of his eyes, the pain threatening to send him unconscious again. His eyes stung and watered fiercely. _"Silence," _the creature hissed, having never stopped marching during the incident. Both the Drones dragging him began chuckling, a low, ugly noise. Bobblehead growled something at the Theron, which hissed in reply. Mishmash shifted him to get a better grip, almost pulling his arm out of its socket. He let out a moan of pain, trying to keep it as low as possible so the Theron didn't hit him again. The Locust all once again ignored him. _Fucking sick bastards, _he thought,_ this is probably how they get off. I get a gun in my hands, I'll cut you three to pieces first._

They came to a medium-sized service elevator at the end of the hallway, one of the old types with a cage door that had to be pulled back. The Theron yanked it open, metal squealing as rusty bearings shifted into position. The noise was hell on the man's ears, and his migraine kicked into high gear. His head spun and he puked all over the floor of the elevator as they dragged him in. The grubs avoided the mess, but the Theron spat at him as it pulled the door shut with another loud shriek of unoiled metal, and slammed a button marked "Main".

The elevator jumped slightly and began to creak its way up the shaft. Aside from the groan of old, poorly-maintained machinery, there wasn't a sound inside the carriage, other than Bobblehead growling something at the Theron, which hissed in reply.

It took all the energy he had left, but the man was able to keep his head up and watch out through the bars of the carriage as it passed the different floors. On one, it was completely dark, and chittering could be heard even over the grind of metal. He chalked up four distant, glowing eyes staring back at him to his fevered imagination.

The next floor had a sign hanging down that said "Information Processing". Locust bustled everywhere, tearing apart filing cabinets and bringing the stacks of papers within to a group of grubs seated around a conference table dragged out in the center of the area, poring over the texts. They were mostly Drones and Theron, but a Boomer was also among them, and all seemed to be concentrating intently. All in the room were dressed abnormally, wearing customized armour and human clothing.

A Boomer wearing an ornate horned helmet and the shreds of what had once been a lab coat was waiting for the elevator, clutching a stack of papers in one meaty hand and the grip of a Mulcher in the other. Opening and closing the cage door with one fat finger, it lumbered on, the elevator sinking underneath its bulk. The man snuck a look at the documents as the lift once again ascended. What little he could see was covered in equations and other unrecognizable squiggles. The beast took one glance at him and grunted before turning to face the door.

The lift stopped at the next floor, and the prisoner could feel a breeze on his face as he was dragged out again. He struggled to his feet as the two guards pulled him along another dusty corridor with enough force to almost dislocate his arms. "I can walk," he said angrily, his strength returning somewhat despite nausea and the pain in his face. To his surprise, the guards released him without a fight, just watching him. The five continued down the hallway for a bit before a heavy kick from Bobblehead crashed into the back of his leg and dumped him to the floor.

His head bounced on the ground and a fresh wave of nausea washed over him. Through the ringing in his ears, the grotesque laughter of the Drones was accompanied by a satisfied hiss from the Theron and an almost infrasonic _"hur-hur-hur" _from the Boomer. His shoulders shrieked as he was roughly manhandled into a standing position and shoved forward. He was unable to remember the next few minutes as he was hurried out of the building and into a small sunlit courtyard.

* * *

><p>As he lurched forward, struggling to keep his balance, he could see several different clusters of Locust milling about. In one, grubs were working to set up tents and build shelters. In another, some Drones and Boomers were taking apart their weapons and cleaning, fixing, or modifying them. The different Locust types could only be distinguished by their height and posture, having freely swapped armour between each other or adding pieces they'd found in the field. Roughly half of them were wearing some article of human clothing, like his guards.<p>

All would frequently pay attention to the largest group, about 20 Locust, composed mainly of Grenadiers and Drones, with a few Theron and a Kantus. They were standing around a Drone seated in a metal folding chair, and the Grenadiers chanted. _It almost sounds like a Thrashball cheer, _he thought, his mind clinging to even a scrap of rationality in this hell he was trapped in_._ His captors had paused to take in the sight, the sharp pain of Mishmash's claws in his upper arm ensuring he wasn't going anywhere.

Some of the Locust shared food with each other as they watched the spectacle unfolding before them. His stomach jumped as one bloodied item could clearly be identified as a human leg, almost gnawed to the bone. _Oh, no. Please. Please don't tell me I'm gonna be grub chow. I don't want to die like that._ The Butcher's cleaver hacking him to pieces, having these monsters set upon him while he was still alive….It was almost too much for him to process, but his mind managed to carefully make its way back to reality.

The Drone was almost as muscular as the Grenadiers, and naked from the waist up, the ground around the chair was soaked in blood. It was missing most of the skin on its head, face, and upper body, and its hands were clenched tightly into trembling fists held tight to its legs. More blood seeped out where the creature's claws dug deep into its palms. The man was no doctor, but it seemed to him that the beast's limbs were severely broken. A shard of bone poked through its black military trousers. The Locust stared straight ahead, breathing heavily through its large nostrils, in obvious agony.

One of the Grenadiers, wearing a dark blue bulletproof vest with SHERIFF across the back in large yellow letters walked forward, tapping a long piece of rebar against the parched ground rhythmically as the mob's chants increased in volume and tempo. The Kantus and Theron remained silent, waiting intently.

The Grenadier holding the rebar brought it up and smashed the Drone across the jaw in one quick, two-handed motion. A sickening crack and a baying from the crowd followed the impact, and the Drone's eyes widening further and its tremors more profound. Still, it didn't make the slightest sound aside from its laboured breathing, and it now sported a horribly dislocated jaw. The prisoner thought he'd vomit again right there, but forced the feeling down.

The Grenadiers returned to their primal chanting, hungry for blood. Their representative circled the chair slowly, snarling at the Drone and feinting at it with the club. The grub trembled visibly, but didn't flinch. The torturer came to face the Drone, leaning down in front of it and giving an ear-splitting roar as the mob howled like a pack of mad dogs. The seated grub continued to stare straight through the Grenadier, and its shakes subsided slowly. It seemed….empty. _Like it can't even feel the pain anymore._

The torturer grunted and returned to the circle of observers, snarling to the Kantus and Theron, two of which came forward holding a large, misshapen earthenware pot. The Drone's eyes followed their approach lazily, not even moving as the two Theron took up positions on either side of it and prepared to tip the pot. The crowd's chanting had decreased in volume steadily during this, on it was now completely quiet in the courtyard. The other Locust had left their tasks briefly and now watched rapt as the Theron hefted the container over the Drone. All eyes turned to the Kantus, a lanky creature in brown, bloodstained robes and a skullcap made of tanned hide. It stared at the Drone for a few moments before speaking in a voice like emphysema, _"Now."_

There was a collective intake of breath as the two Theron poured the contents of the jar, a boiling broth of underground herbs, onto the Drone. The grub shot up ramrod-straight and grasped the seat to prevent itself from leaping away from the burning deluge. A strangled hiss escaped its throat and its head snapped back, eyes rolling wildly. Blisters formed almost instantly on its exposed tissue and muscle. It remained in that contorted position until after the Theron had finished pouring, and then slumped forward, seemingly dead. The Grenadiers burst into cheering, surrounding the grub and lifting it above them with incongruous care before following the Kantus to a makeshift hospice where their new comrade would recover slowly, having survived its horrifying initiation.

The show now over, the assembled Locust returned to their jobs. Heads presently turned towards the detail and their charge as the man was hustled forward towards a small concrete bunker at the far end of the courtyard. He fought to stay conscious, knowing that the grubs would tear him apart if he didn't. No grub would pass up watching _two _vicious beatings in a day, especially if the second victim was a filthy groundwalker.

He managed to keep a hysterical laugh from getting out, knowing that his time was almost up. Whatever else, he knew that if he entered that bunker, he was a dead man, just meat for the monsters. His mind raced frantically as he tried to think of a way to escape. In desperation, he spun around and suckerpunched Mishmash. _I'm going down, I'm not going down quiet. You assholes better _work_ for this._

Mishmash just snorted with amusement and disdain before delivering a gut-punch that folded the prisoner over. He curled into a ball with his eyes squeezed shut, mentally screaming at his paralyzed diaphragm to work. Mishmash came over and put a boot on the side of his head. If the Drone applied any more pressure, his cranium would crack like an egg. A command from the Theron and Mishmash released him, before pulling him up again forcefully.

He managed a weak gasp as his breathing resumed. The bunker grew larger as they neared it, the Boomer still tagging along with the detail, on its way to deliver those documents. Whatever happened, he'd never find out what was on them. _Not even a miracle could save me now_, he realized as the darkness of the bunker swallowed them up.

For the first time in twenty years, Aaron Griffin prayed for his soul.


End file.
